


Reading between Shelves

by Gryffindorian2014



Series: Johnlock/Freebatch Drabbles [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Awkward Crush, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Crushes, Drabble, Drabble Sequence, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fetish, Freeform, In Public, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, Nerd Sherlock, Public Blow Jobs, Public Hand Jobs, Public Masturbation, Recreational Drug Use, Sherlock Has A Crush, Slash, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, blowjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-05-25
Packaged: 2019-02-27 10:18:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13246143
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryffindorian2014/pseuds/Gryffindorian2014
Summary: “Christ, Sherlock, not here!”“Would you prefer I do this ‘under the stars’?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he slid down on the ground.“No.” John giggled, “But, there are people here.” He exclaimed.“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, impatiently. “It is a library.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is to be clearly understood as a pure work of fiction and nothing else*

Ever since John had stumbled into the lab, interrupting one of Sherlock's experiments for his chemistry thesis, a little drunk and desperate after wild dreaming about his junior—who also happened to be one of his only real friends. Telling him, in so many words that he  _needed_ him in his life. They had been "dating" if you can even call it that. John had stalled asking Sherlock about his feelings for over a year mainly because he was British and secondly because the man seemed to have no such inclinations at all. Although he had implied he preferred men, on further inquiry, however, the questions were shot down with a kind of nonchalant dexterity that had dissuaded John from pursuing them again. He didn’t understand why he had an unspoken need to tell Sherlock that it didn’t bother him—whatever he preferred, that his sister always liked girls and that hadn’t bothered John either.

John Watson was someone who did not make friends easily. This particular inability really had nothing to do with his nature, only so much to do with the fact that John was an incredibly private person with very strict boundaries. If people cared enough to ask why—he would attribute it to being the eldest sibling who had been saddled with the responsibility of his sister during most of his adolescence and Harry's own diametrically opposite open-book personality acted as a foil to his—but people left him alone, and it had suited him perfectly. That was when Sherlock had entered his life, strange and bursting with energy, testing all his boundaries and fascinating him like no one else had, brilliant student and junkie.

That's how they'd met. Off-campus.

John trying to score a little marijuana for him and his small band of friends and Sherlock—well, Sherlock was definitely not there for just weed. John had spotted him negotiating the payment: a hooded figure talking in circles and a wad of banknotes crunched in the same fist with which he was clumsily—obviously having already taken a hit—trying to inject a needle into a vein. John had recognized him from his unmistakable voice. For a moment John had stood there, stunned, disbelief had taken over him and rooted him to his spot. Then he had run across the street to Sherlock, wrenched the needle from his shaking hand and dragged him back onto campus.

While he had to hear no end of Greg's incessant complaints about his no-show, he dutifully refrained from telling him about an extremely irritable Sherlock who had ranted about the terrible quality of weed that the ‘pathetic’ nitwits took and listed twenty-nine reasons why weed was a poor choice till John’s ears bled and he slipped an alprazolam in his water before passing him his bottle in bed.

When John had been ready to leave, Sherlock’s hand had shot out and grasped his wrist and he had muttered something that John couldn’t hear. He’d assumed it was a thank you. Sherlock had held his hand till really late into the night, slowly dozing off under the effects of the drug.

Just like that, John’s remaining physical boundaries in relation to Sherlock, simply _melted_ away.

 

 

"Oi! John!"

Greg was gesticulating wildly from the football field. John jogged down the path to him.

“Holmes Jr said he  _needs_ you in the library.” Greg made quotations in the air with his fingers when he said ‘needs’. “God knows what for. You know better how chatty he gets in the lab” He added sarcastically.

“Did he say now?”

“But he did say ‘now’” they uttered together.

John sighed.

"We're still on for drinks tonight, eh?" he asked, a little out of breath.  _Dammit_ , he was out of practice.

“Right on!” Greg’s voice reached him from a distance as he was already running back to his game.

John didn't like going to the library, preferring to study outside or in the solitude of his dorm room—that is, when he did actually study—silently appreciating the distant cacophony from the fields for his company.

He briefly considered wondering why Sherlock needed him in the library of all places, as this was a first, but immediately let it go realizing the futility of his action since he would never be able to predict with any satisfaction, what Sherlock really wanted anyway.

John spotted Sherlock easily among the few students present, as soon as he turned right inside the library. He was sitting near one of the windows overlooking the football field, concealed in part, by two new shelves that had been installed hastily because of the lack of space and already filled to bursting with books.

He stepped out of Sherlock’s direct view to appreciate the harmony of the present moment—Sherlock with a look of pure concentration on his face, one of his hands supporting his head, his longish hair, curling around his fingers. John had never met anyone so frustrating and so equally fascinating, he had never been put off by what others called Sherlock’s “strangeness”, instead, it had only served to draw him in further. Whenever he got the chance, which was exceptionally rare, John took his leisure studying Sherlock’s face. He had the most peculiar eyes, John could never get enough of trying to discern their colour. And then the sharpness of his face, which would’ve almost been harsh, but for the contrasting shape of his mouth—something that had taken root in John’s earlier fantasies of him—John had never seen a mouth quite like Sherlock’s before, so perfectly curving and so full. He had been deeply embarrassed when during one of their regular pub visits, Mike was describing the best lay of his life and all John could think about was Sherlock’s mouth in association to everything they chattered about.

When John sat down, scraping a chair more noisily than he intended to, Sherlock gave no indication of having notice. Exasperated, John went about his business,

"Hi, you wanted to see me? Lestrade was—"

"Could you find me this book?" Sherlock cut in, without looking at him and sliding a piece of paper across the table to him. More of a statement than a request. John set his mouth in a straight line.

"You’re sitting right next to the shelf.”

"And?"

" _And_?"

“Quite unable to leave my typing at the moment John, do catch up.”

John took a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line.

“Sherlock," John started, extremely annoyed, "Greg told me that you absolutely  _needed_ —"

"The book," he said, finally looking up from his laptop and meeting his defiant gaze. "Please."

John wasn’t exactly _mad_ at Sherlock, he really couldn’t stay that way for long, especially with someone who practically flew from thought to thought and action to action with remarkable energy, never stopping for a breath—but John _was_ mad (partially at himself) because he had conveniently assumed that Sherlock’s dizzying energy would translate into their own sex life—which was in a depressing state of affairs, in John’s humble opinion. John couldn’t even begin to articulate his frustrations, he was incredibly attracted to his partner but his partner only seemed to show perfunctory interest, John knew he wasn’t being insincere, neither was he cold, in fact, he was just the opposite in those rare moments that John had the privilege of commanding all of Sherlock’s attention.

But they were rare and John had no manual.

However, something about the way he said ‘please’, something in his manner stopped John from retorting, instead, he sat there feeling a sense of being on the brink of _something_ , trying to gauge what it was about Sherlock’s minutely unusual tone, which quickened his pulse.

John stood up, as if in thrall, as if something were to happen and he felt it in the way Sherlock followed him with his eyes. He slipped into the narrow space between the shelves, looking for the book, all the while, highly conscious about being watched and realizing the book was out of reach, John is about to turn towards Sherlock when, with his heart thundering in his chest, he _felt_  him before he saw him.

Sherlock’s height towered over John even more pronouncedly in the small space. John turned around slowly, his skin prickling at the close distance between them, his throat had never felt any drier, only slightly unsure about what this might potentially lead to. John felt very conscious of himself, they hadn’t been this close in a long, long time—what with Sherlock’s _bloody_ thesis.

John searched Sherlock’s face deliberately, trying to make sense of his increasing anticipation and obvious evidence of desire. But Sherlock simply reached to retrieve the book, going immediately back to his seat, leaving John in a confused mess of heat.

 “I…” John started, clearing his throat, sitting down in an effort to hide his arousal. “I’m going out for some air.” He finally said, recovering quickly.

“Laters,” Sherlock said, not looking at him.

John snapped.

“ _Damn_ you and your thesis” he cried, louder than he intended.

Sherlock looked at him and smirked.

And then things happened very quickly.

Sherlock’s pen and an entire pile of documents fell off the table. The impact turned few heads but no one approached them. Sherlock said a very theatrical “Sorry” before disappearing under the table.

John almost jumped out of his skin when he felt Sherlock’s hands groping his knees before sliding up to his thighs. Shortly after, the lower half of his face appeared underneath the surface, slightly more illuminated than the rest of his face, causing his eyes to glow in the semi-darkness.

“Christ, Sherlock, not _here_ ”

“Would you prefer I do this ‘under the stars’?” he asked, rolling his eyes as he slid down on the ground.

“No.” John giggled, “But, there are people here.” He exclaimed.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, impatiently. “It is a library.”

Sherlock’s hands were already underneath his shirt, much before John could even begin to retort. He made quick work of his belt and his fingers deliberately grazed the length of his prick through his jeans. Part of John felt like he should stop this here, or at the very least, pause it long enough to consider ramifications, be proper adults. But Sherlock sat there with both his eyebrows raised at him. Momentary panic seized John and he gripped Sherlock’s hand, bending down to bring his face close to Sherlock’s.

"Let me," Sherlock said, his voice deeper and quieter than usual, with only a slight edge to it and his breath hot against John's lips. And John trusted him.

John’s grip relaxed and he groaned into Sherlock's ear as soon as his long fingers pried open his fly and slipped around his erection.

His lower body from waist down had given way when Sherlock had started stroking him in earnest, using both hands with maddening dexterity. Then, without any preamble, Sherlock took him in his mouth, sucking in his cheeks and starting to rapidly move his lips up and down along John’s cock.

"Oh God" John moaned, involuntarily thrusting himself into the wet heat of Sherlock’s luxuriant mouth and grasping at Sherlock's shoulders blindly. John’s hand moved to Sherlock’s hair in order to push it out of the way so that John could thoroughly memorize the stretch of those lips he fixated on, around his cock and those _bloody_ cheekbones.

"Not _quite_ " Sherlock replied, smirking.

John would've rolled his eyes but _Christ_ this man was driving him to his end—quite literally. He writhed under Sherlock's touch, unable to form a single cohesive thought, lost in his own sensuality and utterly captivated by the scalding heat in Sherlock’s eyes—which were now a dark green.

John leaned forward resting his forehead on the table and tried pressing his bare foot between Sherlock’s legs just to feel the evidence of his arousal. But Sherlock pulled his mouth away with a soft pop which caused John’s fingers to clench his hair and said,

“Let me do my work,” almost as sternly as if he had been conducting an actual experiment in the lab and John had barged in. John panted incredulously, his breath condensing into laughter which instantaneously changed into a more guttural sound as Sherlock took him into his mouth once more.

John could feel his orgasm pressing behind his eyelids, he felt he was going to burst with it, and barely managed to gasp out a warning. Sherlock, always quick to assimilate, pulled away with another wet pop, his lips swollen red from sucking John. That sight of him was John’s undoing.

When he finally peaked, he realized that this was better—much better than any porno he had used as a point of reference or any he could have imagined. John drunk in the sight of Sherlock—with John’s come striping his cheek, a dull white over the flushed paleness of his skin and the dark of his eyelashes. This was a face that was completely new to him, distinctive and specific. This was the expression that felt decidedly private—an expression that Sherlock Holmes wore when John Watson came on his face.

When John sat back in the chair, slack with overwhelming pleasure and basking in the aftermath, waiting for Sherlock to emerge. He quite evidently failed to notice a taller figure appear behind him.

"Brother mine, how long exactly do you intend to look for  _your pen_  under the table?"

John froze faster than liquid nitrogen froze ice-cream. _What. The. Fuck_.

"Fuck off, Mycroft" Sherlock snarled from underneath the table, the effect of which was diminished due to his position there. 

Mycroft gave John, who was now turning into an alarming shade of crimson from the combined feeling of an orgasm and the knowledge that this threatening individual’s little brother still had John’s _not_ flaccid penis in his mouth, a scrutinizing once-over before turning around to leave.

"You better finish your assignment on time, Sherlock." His amused warning reached them from a distance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“Was this your way of apologizing?” John asked after he felt steady enough to talk about ordinary things again.

“And what would that be for, exactly?”

“ _What_? Are you serious?—never mind.” Instead, he watched Sherlock put his books back, “But if this is indeed your idea of apologi—“

“Now, about that book...” Sherlock interrupted, busying himself at the other end of the shelf.

John stopped speaking and stood there for a while, grinning widely and watching Sherlock dash about between shelves.

 

**~fin~**


	2. Game of Thrones Night I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and John's tiny crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a random expansion of this collegelock universe, timeline here is before Reading Between Shelves but after they'd become friends "obviously".

“Are you…are you all smoking weed in _my_ house?!” John asked fanning the air in front of his face with his free hand “It’s disgusting”. In his other hand he carried a plastic bag full of crisps and Pepsi and from the brown package under his arm, peeked a shiny green cap.

“Excellent observation, as usual, Watson. I see you’ve got Vodka again.”

“We didn’t have enough cash on us.” Said Greg by way of explanation, and wasn’t surprised when the two ignored him.

“And what’s wrong with Vodka?” John retorted, shutting the door with his heel and slipping out of his sneakers.

“Simply your extreme incapability to hold it in your stomach.”

“Sherlock’s got a point, y’know. This is supposed to be our Game of Thrones night” supplied Lestrade.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the same time Mycroft commented “I don’t understand your obsession with this unbelievably droll show. It has to be the most predictable television has to offer.”

It was Greg’s turn to roll his eyes.

“What I don’t understand is _why_ you’re even here, Mycroft. Don’t you have anyone you can spy on?” added Sherlock.

“And miss watching you trying to—“ his tone turned mocking, “‘hang out with _friends’_? Absolutely not, _brother_ dear.”

“Alright, alright, boys, we can do both. I’m sure. And I can definitely hold my drink, Holmes” John seethed.

Sherlock simply ignored them both and snatched the joint from Greg’s hand, furiously smoking it while he made his way towards the window. “Molly’s here,” he said, just as the doorbell rang.

“I’ll never understand how you do it, mate,” Greg said slowly, obviously a little out of it already.

Mycroft scoffed, fishing inside the bag John had just brought in.

 “Hey guys” Molly smiled, taking off her shoes, “I got some whiskey from my dad’s place”

“Finally something good to drink!” Greg said

“Brilliant” Mycroft replied without sarcasm, at the same time, making his way back to the centre table with a bag of crisps.

“Hi, Sherlock!” Molly called, tucking her hair behind her ears and smiling giddily. While Sherlock gave her a tight-lipped smile and waved the joint.

“ _Hey_ , Molly” Harriet called loudly, rather lasciviously (which was lost on Molly), peeping from atop the stairs, “Come join us, Mary’s upstairs as well.”

“Okay,” Molly said, masking her dejection.

“Harry, are you using Netflix? I can’t access the account” John shouted back. “If you are, please do not. It's movie night.”

“Then watch a bloody movie on the tele.”

“What would make all of this easier is if you could please come down and watch season seven with us,” John said tightly.

“Again? No thanks.”

“Harry, fuck—”

“You can use mine.” Sherlock cut in from behind him and John jumped.

_How long was he here?!_

“Are you sure?—”                

“Watson—”

“Yeah. Okay. Just put your details in.”

Sherlock bent over John’s left shoulder, his arms, smooth in the dim light of the laptop screen. John felt himself holding his breath, while his eyes trailed up the length of his black shirtsleeves. _Fucking_ _posh_. John didn’t want to admit why he felt so tense around his junior. He had no bloody clue, really. And when John’s eyes reached Sherlock’s face, Sherlock was looking at him intensely, his lips were slightly parted as if he was saying something or was about to. _Wait_ , _did he say something?_

“John!”

It was Lestrade. In his ear.

“For fuck’s sake, Greg!” John gulped silently, not daring to look at Lestrade’s knowing grin.

“Do you want to plug this into the tele?” Sherlock was saying with the laptop in his hands.

“Yeah…yes,” John said, clearing his throat.

All the while John spent deliberately plugging his computer in, John felt two pairs of eyes most distinctly on his back.

 


	3. Game of Thrones Night II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> johnlock can barely keep it in their pants.

The realization dawned on John Watson as the lights came on when Greg and Mycroft paused the show and to argue whether the Dragon Queen's idea of approaching Cersei before reaching out to the Starks was a good one, that he was sitting _quite_ close to Sherlock Holmes. The shock of the moment froze John in his spot especially when Sherlock reached out to tap the excess of the joint in the ashtray right in front of him.

"Watson"

It was obvious that Sherlock knew what he was feeling at their increased proximity. John cleared his throat in order to disguise the colour of heat rising in his cheeks for no apparent reason and turned to face his junior. "Yes?" He internally cursed the quiver in his voice and _hoped_ the infuriatingly observant person would not happen to pick up on these clues.

"Care for a drag?" the amused quirk of Sherlock's lips was strangely hypnotizing.

"Sure," John replied much too quickly, more confidently than he felt and still distracted by his junior's mouth.

John then made to reach for the joint but Sherlock adeptly turned it around in between his forefingers instead, holding it near John's mouth.

"Go on, then". A challenge.

The heat came off his cheeks and John leaned into Sherlock's fingers.

The moment lasts a nanosecond, but Sherlock's thumb tugs at John's lower lip before he sets the roll in between them. And John inhales as deep as he can, watching Sherlock's eyes, now a deep green, drop to his mouth and then back to meet John's. John holds his breath, sure that he can smell more than weed and tobacco.

But by the time he exhales, Sherlock's a foot apart and his eyes are far away, through the window and into the streetlit night outside

 

**Author's Note:**

> *hahaaaaaaaaaaa kiddinggg ofc Johnlock is R-E-A-L, anyone who tells you otherwise if D-A-F-T.


End file.
